Closing Time by Jack Ketchum

Author:Jack Ketchum [Ketchum, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dark fantasy short stories
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2015-04-04T00:00:00+00:00

Hotline

He put the phone down in its cradle on the desk and sat back in the wooden armchair—its springs creaked. The springs annoyed him. If he held onto this job for any time at all he’d have to remember to bring in the 3-in-1 oil.

In his crossword puzzle he was stuck on a nine-letter word for shapeless. All he had was a final S.

Four calls, he thought, in a little over two hours, the first two hours of his very first solo shift. Damn! people were depressed these days. He’d taken the training and asked a few questions but obviously he hadn’t asked one of the important ones—just what was the volume anyway?

He hadn’t expected it to be this heavy.

If grief were cash he’d be looking at a windfall here.

Could be it was the storm outside. A heavy cold March rainfall. He could hear it pounding at the windows of the Y. The storm wanted in.

A low barometer was called a depression, wasn’t it?

He wondered if there was a connection.

Connection. Another interesting word, given what he was doing.

He was considering an expressly forbidden trip to the men’s room for a Winston when the phone rang again.

“Crisis Center Hotline,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve been…I’m thinking that…”

The voice was agitated, thin. Male.

“Yes?”

“I’m thinking that maybe I ought to kill myself.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir? Talk to me about it. That’s what I’m here for.”

He sighed. “Okay. All right. It’s been nine whole months since Barbara left and I still can’t put it behind me—that last conversation, those last couple of days, I still can’t stop thinking about her. Jesus, nine whole months! You’d think I’d be over it by now, wouldn’t you? What do you call it? Reconciled? I mean, people have babies in nine months! I get up in the morning and the first thing I do is check my e-mail, thinking maybe there’ll be a message from her. Something. There never is. I’m constantly depressed. My sleep pattern’s a goddamn wreck. I don’t eat enough, I drink too much. I can’t seem to decide what to do with myself, y’know?”

“You can’t get control of things.”

“That’s right. That’s it exactly. Everything’s out of control. You should see me. You really should. I’m a mess! I’ve gained weight, my immune system’s all shot to hell—I’ve had three colds already this year, herpes sores, the whole bit. Half the time I don’t even bother shaving. I can’t get into my work god knows…”

“What do you do for a living, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m a painter.”

“A housepainter?”

“No, I paint. I do magazine and book covers. And my own fine art. I’ve got a gallery here and there. But I can’t seem to give a damn about any of it anymore.”

“You’ve lost contact with a lot of your friends, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you taking risks? I mean unnecessary risks?”

“Hell, yes. I had to drive into Portland last weekend to pick up some materials, some supplies,

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